


too good to be good for me

by sirfeit



Series: bad endings 'verse [2]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Blood, Gen, Handcuffs, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, non-sexual bdsm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-23
Updated: 2016-09-15
Packaged: 2018-07-16 21:04:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7284748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sirfeit/pseuds/sirfeit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’s been good. He goes to training. He learns Trigedasleng, as best he can. He is civil to Clarke. He stays out of Monty’s way. He kills when and who he is commanded to. He’s the best damn lukotwar Polis has seen in decades.</p><p>But.</p><p>He was not made for goodness. He was not made for being great; he was not made to be the hero. He was made for blood and dirt. He was made for pain.</p><p>[Non-canon.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. too good to be good for me

**Author's Note:**

> title from Troye Sivan’s ‘too good’
> 
> disclaimer: idk how scars work

He wakes gasping again into the dark; the darkness has worked its way into his lungs, his throat is wrecked again, he can’t talk; he fights screaming in dreams the way he does in real life, so he can hope that — No. Bellamy is awake already, wants to Fix Things. He feels sick. He feels dead. He wants to be unconscious. He doesn’t want this.

“You gonna cuff me?” he asks, just because he knows it will make Bellamy flinch.

“You want me to?” He can’t see Bellamy’s face, can’t tell if it’s sarcasm, if he’s teasing him, if it’s a real offer. Considers: Bellamy’s hand on his wrist, brief warmth, circled thumb to forefinger. Metal to metal; locked, tug, secure. Safe? Safe? Everything still feels jumbled, harsh, like in the skybox: flourescent lights directly in his eyes, the smell of alcohol. 

“Yeah,” he says, eventually. Except. No. No. He can’t _say_ no. That’s not — that’s dangerous, he has to tell her _yes_ — This isn’t. Stop. She’s dead. “I can’t —“ Presses the heels of his hands to his eyes, feels stars spark underneath his eyelids. Doesn’t help. “I’ll be good,” he says. A promise. “You don’t have to.”

“Come down here,” says Bellamy. 

Bellamy won’t hurt him. Bellamy won’t hurt him unless he deserves it, not now, not here. And he’s been good. He only kills when and who he’s been told to: he doesn’t start fights. He goes to training. He climbs down the ladder, stands, shivering (Cold? Scared? Get it together, Murphy). His eyes have adjusted to the darkness: he can see the shape of Bellamy. 

“Do you want to be closer to the wall or the door?” asks Bellamy, and what? What? 

“The door,” he says, because he needs a way out, he always needs a way out. 

Bellamy sits down on the bottom bunk. He takes Murphy’s wrist. Murphy closes his eyes. Settle. He takes what he’s given. Warmth. Touch. Pain.

Bellamy tugs, and Murphy collapses, sideways, onto the bed. Bellamy pulls the blanket out from under him, and then to cover both of them. Oh. He just wants — This is easy. He can do this. 

Everything he is is made of points of warmth: against, with, Bellamy. He matches his breathing to Bellamy’s: slow, deep, even.

Falling asleep has always been easy for him. This time, it’s even easier.

—

In the morning, there is work to do, because there is always work to do: clearing space for farms, carrying water, accepting and putting away delivieries from Polis, cooking food. And — He’s standing by the firepit, and Monty is there, and there’s this tension there, so sharp he could cut it. Monty wanted to be the one to soothe him out of nightmares, to kiss him awake in the morning, to touch his bare skin with his palms. And. He gets in Monty’s space, and he’s —

He’s been good. He goes to training. He learns Trigedasleng, as best he can. He is civil to Clarke. He stays out of Monty’s way. He kills when and who he is commanded to. He’s the best damn lukotwar Polis has seen in decades.

But.

He was not made for goodness. He was not made for being great; he was not made to be the hero. He was made for blood and dirt. He was made for pain.

And when his fist connects with Monty’s face, that feels _so good._

But Monty’s quick on the uptake: he’s been better than Murphy for months, and he still is, except he wastes a lot of breath and time yelling, and Murphy’s —

Bellamy is between them, breaking it up. His hand is splayed across Murphy’s chest, the other a warning to Monty. “Go to Clarke,” Bellamy says, and Monty glares before taking off.

Bellamy killed everyone in Mount Weather with Monty. He’ll take Monty’s side. That’s something you don’t just brush aside. 

To be fair. Murphy started it. For no reason. His side is pretty wrong.

“You okay?” asks Bellamy, looking him over for injuries. 

Murphy feels. Warm? Adrenaline. He doesn’t get this rush training with Bryan anymore; they’ve both settled into a pattern and it’s hard to break out of it. He waves his hand over his whole self, a half-explanation. “Hurts,” he says.

Bellamy’s eyes go concerned. That’s not what he wanted. His hand shifts from Murphy’s chest to his shoulder, squeezes. A comfort? A warning? Impossible to tell. 

Murphy shoves him, hard. Bellamy’s face tightens, grip changes from light to commanding. 

Harper is there. How? Right. They’re standing in the middle of camp, in front of everybody. Chill out, Murphy. She won’t look at him. He swallows.

She’s not here for him. “Can I talk to you for a second?” she asks.

Bellamy looks him in the eyes, makes a judgement. “Yeah,” he says. He lets go of Murphy. “Go and wait for me at the house,” he says. He doesn’t say _your house,_ or _our house._ It’s not even really a house, it’s barely a building. The house. “At home,” he clarifies after a second.

Murphy stares at him for one, two beats. Harper makes an impatient shooing motion. He goes.

—

He waits, sitting on Bellamy’s bunk. He has things to do. He can’t stay here. He has to —

Another time. _I have loved the stars too fondly to be fearful of the night._ Mbege liked that one a lot, even though they’d never seen nighttime in space. Octavia’s lips on his. Bellamy’s hand on his chest. _Stay._

He can be good. He can.

Sometimes he just wants a little encouragement.

—

Bellamy opens the door to his and Murphy’s shelter. Murphy is sitting, half-sleeping, on the bottom bunk. “Hey,” says Bellamy, looking him over. “You okay?” He’s a little surprised that Murphy had come here, and stayed here.

Murphy opens his eyes, lazy. “Yeah,” he says. “Everything is just. Loud.” He nods, like those were the words he was searching for. “You gonna cuff me?”

“Why should I?” he asks.

Murphy shrugs. “Insubordination. Fighting.”

“You want me to?” It’s what he’s been getting at.

Murphy looks away. “Yeah,” he says.

Okay. Okay. He opens the top desk drawer. One pair of handcuffs. One set of keys. One handgun. One ????? bundle of wires. 

“You want them cuffed together, or to the bunk?”

Careful. Careful.

Murphy looks up at him, like he can’t believe this is happening.  “Whatever you want,” he says. 

He’s. Not sure he wants. This.

Except. He does.

He wants to feel Murphy’s bones underneath his skin, hear his breath pitch uncertainly, watch as his eyes flicker. 

Well. Here he is.

“Lay on your stomach,” he tells Murphy, and Murphy rolls to comply.

This is. Kind of. Nice?

Bellamy pulls Murphy’s wrists behind him, lets the metal close around each of them, loose as he can, mindful of the scarring. “You good?”

“’s good,” confirms Murphy, his voice muffled by the mattress underneath him. 

“Okay,” says Bellamy. He considers telling Murphy to shove over, but ends up just pushing him farther to the wall. He picks up the book he has tucked underneath the bed. Sits cross-legged next to Murphy. 

Pulls Murphy up until his head is in his lap. “Okay?” he asks.

“Yeah,” says Murphy, easy, relaxed, slack. 

He opens the book. After a couple pages, he tucks a hand into Murphy’s hair, begins stroking. There’s a full-body shudder, and he stills. Not good. He removes his hand. “Still okay?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Murphy says, a little tighter. “Just don’t do that again.”

So he turns another page. He listens to Murphy’s breathing, as it evens out. He listens to the beat of his own heart, in his ears, caught up in his ribcage. It’s. It’s pretty good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this started as another “bellamy comforts murphy from a nightmare” and now Here We Are so ???
> 
> please let me know what you think of this because i am like 300times more nervous about it than i am everything else. i accept kudos, comments, and first-born children. actually, i really do not. please do not give me your children.


	2. too bad that that's all i need

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey there! here's a note that this is considered 'non-canon' for the go home or make a home 'verse -- it takes place between 'pain, penance, birthright' and 'never quite free', but a) there's not enough time between the two stories for this to actually take place, and b) #character development still needs to happen. that was a little confusing! let me know if you need any clarification.

_You want me to?_

No. Yes. No. What he wants is for Bellamy to physically injure him. He wants Bellamy to push him up against a wall, trap him there. Wants Bellamy to shake him until he gets his sense back.

But Bellamy won’t do that. Not anymore. After Oshokru, after Moss: he’s more gentle now, more likely to be still when he could be in motion. Or. Maybe even earlier than that. After Clarke got to him, got into his head.

_Did he do anything to you? We hanged him, we banished him, and now we’re going to kill him. He deserves to die._

He wants Bellamy to hurt him again. Wants the warm heat to settle in his belly. Wants it bad enough that he can taste it: blood in his mouth, his throat. He’s fucked up. He’s fucked up, and he knows it, and the knowing doesn’t help him any.

_Yeah._

Bellamy takes a deep breath. It was the wrong answer. Bellamy’s different now, won’t put him in his place like he deserves. Bellamy will grant him mercy, and that’s not what he wants. 

Bellamy opens the top desk drawer. Murphy’s breath catches.

 

—

 

A measure of time passes. Eventually, Bellamy sets aside his book. He almost presses his hand to Murphy’s hair, but stops himself. “Hey,” he says instead. “You still good?”

“Yeah,” says Murphy, but he sounds very far away.

“I’m gonna let you go now, okay?”

“Yeah,” says Murphy, but it doesn’t really sound like an answer. Bellamy reaches over, unlocks the cuffs, drops them to the side of the bed. Loud clattering sound.

Murphy lets his hands drop. A few moments of stillness. His legs are asleep.

Murphy sits up. Rubs his eyes. Bellamy stretches out his legs. Ow. 

“Sorry,” says Murphy. Bellamy doesn’t know what to say to that. A couple beats; he raises a hand, takes Bellamy’s wrist, and sets his hand awkwardly on his own head. “You can pet,” he says. “Just don’t. Pull."

“Okay,” says Bellamy. He feels loose and confused. “Instead of getting into fights, you can just ask me next time it gets too loud, okay?”

“Yeah,” says Murphy. Bellamy gets up to turn the lamp off. Murphy makes a sound that could be described as a whimper: “Stay.”

“Shh,” says Bellamy, close to soothing. “I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”

 

—

 

It happens again. This next time, Murphy hands him a bundle of rope and says: “Tie me to the headboard of your bed.”

Bellamy takes the rope, turns it over in his hands. It’s an easy task: he pulls Murphy’s hands in front of him, ties them together. Murphy takes a deep breath and lies down on his back, so Bellamy pulls his arms above him and ties that to the headboard. Murphy gives an exploratory tug, and then relaxes. “You good?” asks Bellamy, already worried.

There’s a pause. It’s long enough that Bellamy is regretting this, but then Murphy says. “Yeah,” and, “Can you stop asking? Just for today.”

Absolutely not. “No,” says Bellamy. “You want me to let you go?”

Murphy tugs again. “No,” he says. His shoulders are taut. “I keep dreaming about Charlotte,” he says, and that’s.

That’s not something Bellamy wants to hear.

Murphy’s eyes catch on his. “You’re mad, now, aren’t you,” he says, and his voice is bordering just on the edge of smug. “You can fuck me up,” he says. “Come on. You want to.” His eyes are dark.

“You’re kind of a jackass,” says Bellamy. 

Murphy’s eyes half-close, waiting for it. “Yeah,” he agrees.

Bellamy leans over Murphy, uses his knife to cut through the rope. His hands are shaking, but he doesn’t trust himself to untie; there doesn’t seem to be enough _time._ Murphy hisses a breath through his teeth, yanks his hands away from Bellamy,  sits up.

“I’m not doing this,” says Bellamy. “Go ask Bryan or something, I don’t care.”

Murphy’s eyes burn into his. He wants. 

He wants Murphy’s breath to hitch precariously: he wants to hold Murphy down, wants —

“I’ll be good,” Murphy promises.

“Get out,” snaps Bellamy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> welp that was great while it lasted looks like some #communication needs to happen
> 
> who knows if there will be a follow-up piece to this! 
> 
> no pressure but your comments + feedback make my Whole Day


	3. i don't need no trouble

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bellamy prefers his hurt/comfort ratio to be primarily comfort. Murphy is an idiot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title from "no trouble" by the Weepies

Murphy does go to Bryan. Bryan catches the look in his eye, looks to Miller. Miller shakes his head, leans over to whisper something in Bryan’s ear. Bryan says to Miller, “It’s fine, I can take him,” but he’s looking at Murphy.

He is all noise. He is all noise and everything is falling apart around him. Bellamy hates him. He hates himself. He shouldn’t have asked. He should have let it stagnate, let it rest. He’s a bad person, he’s fucked up, he’s fucked up, he deserves to die —

Bryan rolls up his sleeves. Bryan takes him out, makes him hurt bad enough that he just starts taking it, like he would when he slept in the church in the bottom of Polis, when Titus would ask him questions.

No. He feels like he did after he got out of lockup, in Arkadia, almost a year ago now: everything hurt and he was still cuffed and Pike was still alive and wanted him to do well, in his class, in his genocidal army.

No. He doesn’t feel like anything at all. He feels numb. He kind of wants to be dead. He does want to be dead. Dead or unconscious, which are the same thing. He doesn’t want anything. Everything feels _loud_ but also muted, fuzzy. This isn’t good. 

Bryan pulls him to his feet. He catches Miller’s eye. He needs to get out of here. 

He shrugs out of Bryan’s hold. He goes to Raven’s.

That’s never been a good idea.

 

—

 

Bellamy finds Prosper knee-deep in the river, catching fish with his bare hands. He stares on the shore and shouts in Trigedasleng: “How’s the water?”

Prosper turns and glares at him. The fish have scattered at his shouting. Prosper wades back up to the shore to join him on the bank. “You didn’t come here to ask me about the water,” he says, more comfortable in Trigedasleng. “What do you want?”

Everything he’d rehearsed on the way over seems. Unrealistic, now. It comes out in a rush: “Murphy wants me to hurt him,” he says. “I don’t know — I can’t do that. I don’t know how to stop, and I don’t know how to help him.” None of that made sense. Prosper shouldn’t know these things about Murphy; after the bomb in Polis, in that dusty city when he insisted Bellamy kill the Commander, he is half-wild, unpredictable. He shouldn’t give Prosper any ammunition. He doesn’t know who else to ask.

Prosper takes a deep breath. “Murphy is wrecked,” he says. “He’s done a lot of stupid shit and he needs to get out of his head once in a while. He just wants — You need to ground him.”

And. He says this before he really thinks about it: “Is that a GROUND-er thing?”

Prosper wrinkles his nose. “Sorry,” he says. “Your Trig is bad, can you repeat that in English?”

He repeats his pun. He feels worse about it now. Prosper sighs harder and looks away. And then he says, measured carefully in English: “Fuck no.” 

“Sorry,” says Bellamy. 

There’s silence, and the fish regroup back into the river, and Prosper wades out into it again. Bellamy watches him, knowing he should leave. Prosper speaks, one more time. “Oshokru taught you how to be still, right?” Yes. _Yes._ In the early morning, with the salt in his mouth and his nose, Eiven at his shoulder — “That’s what Murphy needs. To be in his own body.”

“I don’t know,” says Bellamy. “I’ve done a lot of bad shit too, I don’t know if I should be. Responsible for that.”

Prosper leans down into the water and with one hand pulls out a fish. “He picked you,” says Prosper, examining the flopping creature. “Is anyone else going to do it? Is anyone else going to care enough?” No. “Does he trust anyone else?” Hardly.

Prosper releases the fish back into the water. Bellamy watches a while longer, and then goes to find Murphy.

 

—

 

Back at the dropship, there is a commotion: further investigation reveals that it’s Murphy having a screaming match with Raven. He can’t tell what they’re arguing about. It just sounds _loud._

He remembers being responsible for this, responsible for Murphy’s actions; remembers the sharp burn of his own words in his throat: _What’s wrong with a little chaos?_ So he’s striding forward, and then someone’s hand on his shoulder stops him. Miller.

“I don’t think you really want to get into that,” Miller says.

Bellamy looks back at him, lets his glare do the work of talking. Miller’s hand drops. 

He comes up from behind. Murphy doesn’t really notice until Bellamy’s hand is across his shoulders, hand resting at the base of his skull. He _flinches,_ but he also stops yelling, and he turns to see Bellamy there. And he — he goes still, even as he spits out “What do _you_ want?”

And Bellamy squeezes a little, just in warning, and Murphy drops his head, and — 

Well. What _does_ he want?

“Go home,” says Bellamy. “Wait for me.”

“Fuck off,” snaps Murphy.

Bellamy doesn’t have any recourse for disobedience. He shakes Murphy a little, enough to frighten him. “Go _home,_ ” he says again. 

And Murphy looks over to him, and his mouth is slightly open, and — and he goes. 

Raven looks at him.  Raven raises an eyebrow. Raven doesn’t say anything.

 

—

 

Murphy is walking back home, to his and Bellamy’s shelter. His throat hurts from yelling. Kane told him once that he should drink more water. He had said, “ _You know, Murphy, not being hydrated enough is probably the root cause of most of your problems._ ” 

Murphy is pretty sure this is untrue. He pulls out his water bottle and drinks from it anyway. 

He feels better. A little. The surfaces of his palms feel filthy, too-warm. He wants a shower. He wants to kill something. He wants to fight something. He wants —

Bellamy told him to stay here. 

He thinks about leaving. He thinks about refusing Bellamy’s offer? Request? Order?It would be useless after he worked so hard to get it. He’s thinking about doing it anyway when Bellamy comes through the door.

He gives Murphy a once-over, checking for damage. He’s fine. “You can’t keep doing this,” says Bellamy. “I told you that you could come to me. That you could ask.”

“You won’t give me what I want,” says Murphy, hedging around it, still feeling wronged. He’s fucked up, but so is Bellamy, and they’re fucked up in kind of the same ways, so it should be easy! It should be easy.

“Okay,” says Bellamy, leaning against the wall. He looks good. He looks good doing everything. Murphy tries to pay attention to whatever he’s saying. “What do you want?”

He. He — He can’t do that. He shakes his head and looks away. Bellamy steps to him, too close. He takes a step back, keeps taking steps back until the back of his knees hit Bellamy’s bed. He sits down. He watches.

Bellamy opens the top desk drawer again. The handcuffs. Bellamy takes his right wrist. He takes what he’s given. Warmth. Touch. Pain. Bellamy pulls his wrist to the side, pulls one cuff around it, the other to the bedframe. He rattles it automatically; there’s no give. Safe? Safe? 

Yeah. He looks up. Bellamy’s here.

“You good?” asks Bellamy.

Kind of. He looks away again, shrugs.

And Bellamy hits him. Yeah. Yeah! Something has started to bleed on his face — his nose. Everything: the scent of his own blood, the sting of his face, the thrumming of it in his ears. “Yeah,” he says. “I’m good.” He rattles the cuff again, remembers, and then brings his left hand to his face, trying to stem the flow of blood.

“Don’t,” says Bellamy, taking his hand. He can taste it now, copper and relief. He stills, watches Bellamy. “Tip your head forward,” he says. Murphy tips. Bellamy gets a cloth from wherever, wets it with Murphy’s discarded water bottle, starts wiping away the blood from his face. Murphy swallows. Bellamy checks his face over, then pinches his nose shut. Tries to suck in air. Can’t. Betrayal! Treachery! Murphy thrashes, mindlessly: Bellamy’s hand cups the back of his head, keeps him steady. “Breathe through your mouth,” he says, his voice sounding tired. Oh. _Obviously._

Murphy steadies. Bellamy pinches his nose again; he adjusts, breathes through his mouth. Bellamy waits one, two, three: the bleeding has mostly stopped. Lets his nose go. Bellamy dabs at his face with the wet cloth, until most of the blood is gone. He leans over and uncuffs Murphy from the bed. Murphy makes a disappointed, dissatisfied noise. “Shut up,” says Bellamy, not unkindly. “Shove over. Lay on your stomach.”

Murphy complies easy; pliant. Bellamy brings his still-cuffed wrist back behind him, and then cuffs them together. He half-struggles, testing his range of movement. “You good?” asks Bellamy.

“Yeah,” says Murphy; loose but in a nice way. Not hysterical. Bellamy sits on the bed, pulls his book out from underneath it. Murphy curls to his side.

Listens to his own breathing. Listens to Bellamy turning pages.

Without being asked, Bellamy begins to read aloud. It feels like a lot of words to him, caught up around each other. But he likes Bellamy’s voice, so he keeps listening, and listening, and then Bellamy is carding his fingers through his hair and that’s okay, and everything is quiet. And he is still alive. And that's okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shoutout to prosper
> 
> i have a lot less time to write now so updates will be slower! there should be more chapters in this 4sure though. 
> 
> as always. your comments haunt me in my dreams and let me return to the world of writing instead of scrolling tumblr infinitely. please continue. thank you.
> 
> edits made about 4 hours after this was put up so. be wary. idk
> 
> im making these edits while drinking not-coffee in a library. life is #good


	4. but sometimes trouble needs me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> content warning for rape discussion and suicidal thoughts

Bellamy has him on the bed again, with his hands tied over the headboard with a rough length of rope. Bellamy says, “what do you want,” and he’s tired of Murphy, of his tantrums and his frights and his nightmares, and he should be, Murphy is more trouble than he’s worth, but —

“Hurt me,” he says, because he still _wants,_ and it’s all he knows and all he can fall back on. 

Bellamy takes a deep breath, hits him in the stomach. He can feel the rope around his wrists. It hurts, but it wasn’t. It wasn’t what he wanted. Bellamy is pulling his shirt up, checking the damage, shaking out his fist. 

“Not — like that,” he pants. “Sorry, can you — do you have a knife, or something, that you could use?”

“Um,” says Bellamy. “Give me a second.” His weight comes off the bed; he steps off to the side. Murphy can’t see him now: he hears himself whimper. Pathetic. Bellamy gets something off the desk, probably. He sits back down on the bed. “I’m right here,” he says, but it doesn’t sound like a reassurance.

“Cut my shirt off,” offers Murphy, as Bellamy hovers over him uncertainly.

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

Bellamy pulls it away from his skin, first, and he rips with his hands more than he uses the knife. Murphy turns his head to the side and breathes through his nose. Bellamy pulls the destroyed fabric away from his body, sets aside the knife. 

With one rough hand, he touches the edge of Murphy’s jaw. He is gentle, and Murphy still flinches, and he can’t escape this, now, not when he’s asked —

Bellamy takes his hand away. “Murphy,” he says, and, and. “Murphy, look at me.”

He won’t.

Bellamy takes hold of his jaw again, forces him. He knows what he looks like, wild-eyed and —

“This isn’t what you want,” says Bellamy, and then, clarifying: “This has happened to you before. You’re — You’re trying to reenact something, to make it okay.”

It’s not. He’s not. That makes it sound fucked up. It’s fine. He’s fine. “I liked it,” he says. “I got off on it. She — I had to do it.”

“Stop,” says Bellamy, forceful. Murphy swallows the rest of his sentence. “What do you — who is she?”

“Ontari,” he says, the name bitter on his tongue. “It’s okay,” he adds. “I killed her.”

Bellamy doesn’t look like he thinks that’s okay. “I’m not going to hurt you in the same way she hurt you,” he says, measured.

“But I want you to,” he hears himself say.

“No,” says Bellamy again, and he’s untying the ropes that are holding his hands to the headboard. 

Murphy sits up as soon as there’s room. He rubs at his wrists absently. “Do you,” he says. “Do you remember when I came back here, and I slept in your bed?”

“Do you want to do that again?” asks Bellamy.

He looks down at his wrists, the raised outline of scars. Thinks about Ontari, and her pretty mouth, and her hands over his hands, across his throat. “I want to die,” he says honestly. “I want to be dead. You gon play stay odon, or whatever. I’m done. I want to be done.”

“Yeah?” asks Bellamy. “You been talking to Jasper?”

“ _Fuck_ Jasper,” Murphy spits out, although there’s little heat. “I just. I fuck up everything, and I just want to. Stop having to make decisions for awhile. And I want it to hurt. So that I know I’m still here. I just thought — You used to hurt me, all the time. I know you don’t really do that anymore, you’ve found your inner peace or whatever, so. Sorry. I didn’t mean to —“ He can’t look at Bellamy. He can’t.

Suddenly there’s an arm across his back, his shoulders, pulling him closer to Bellamy. Hard flinch, but Bellamy ignores it neatly. “Hey,” he says. “Hey, it’s okay.” 

What? He touches his face. He’s crying. Awkward. Wipes his hand back over his eyes, snuffles. “Sorry,” he says, and then. Shoves away from Bellamy. “I have to go to training.” He’s already late. 

“Okay,” says Bellamy, and he lets Murphy leave. Murphy kind of wishes he wouldn’t, but also. Ryfe will be mad.

 

—

 

Murphy comes back to the shelter after the bonfire has burned to its last embers and everyone else has gone to sleep. He toes off his shoes in the entryway before looking up at Bellamy. “Oh,” he says. “You’re still up.”

“Yeah,” says Bellamy. He is.

“Sorry,” Murphy says, looking down again. “I can get you a different room assignment, or whatever.”

“No,” says Bellamy, standing up. “Look,” he says, and then pauses, watching the flicker of his shadow in the lamplight. “I like whatever _this_ is, too, but I’m not going to repeat what she did to you.” Murphy glances up at him then, eyes wide, hungry. “We have to talk about this. I don’t know what your limits are.”

“I don’t have any limits,” says Murphy, and, what a lie _that_ is. 

“Shut up,” Bellamy tells him. He crosses the space in between them, takes him by the shoulders. Shakes him. Steady, steady. Murphy doesn’t look convinced, so he threads one hand through Murphy’s hair and _yanks._

Murphy lashes out; one fist catches Bellamy in the throat, his knee going for Bellamy’s stomach, and there’s a brief scuffle that ends with Murphy on his back on the floor, Bellamy over him, one hand on his chest to keep him there. Murphy’s breath hitches, but not in panic; his eyes have that same hungry look. “You like this?” Bellamy asks, making sure. “You want this?”

“Yeah,” says Murphy. There’s no lie there.

“Okay,” says Bellamy, and he lets Murphy up. Murphy pulls himself into a sitting position but stays on the floor. “She wouldn’t let you say no, right? I won’t make you tell me _no_ or _stop_ either, then, so you can pick a different word. Something that doesn’t mean anything to you, and I’ll stop, okay?”

“Okay,” says Murphy, and he keeps staring.

Bellamy offers him a hand up. “We’ll talk in the morning,” he says. “You’re tired, and I’m —“ Exhausted. Exhilerated. “I’m done. Good night.”

Murphy takes the hand up, straightens his shirt. Bellamy watches him climb into his bunk. He switches off the lamp, and in the ensuing darkness, he allows himself to be still.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you gon play stay odon - yu gonplei ste odon - your fight is over
> 
> alright, I think this is going On Hold/is finished until the end of Never Quite Free because there’s only So Much angst i can deal with at a time
> 
> haha murphy never put on a shirt after bellamy cuts it off in the first scene. it never specifies that either of them are wearing shirts. or have pants on. #imagineyourotp  
> ok im done
> 
> bellamy blake, inventor of the safeword, 2k52
> 
> as always. your comments and kudos mean the world to me. thank you.


	5. no one knows the two sides of monsieur valentine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> disclaimer: i have no idea how plumbing works or if you need trenches for it
> 
> warning for some suicidal ideation
> 
> thanks 2 cheerynoir for figuring this through with me
> 
> [important warning: this is part one of a serious hurt/comfort cycle; this part is the hurt. come back on sundayish if you need the follow-up comfort immediately.]

Bellamy is digging trenches to expand their water system when Murphy gets to him. “Hey,” he says.

Bellamy pauses, leans against his shovel, looks up at him. “Hey,” says Bellamy. “You need something?”

“Um,” says Murphy. His arms are covered in red marks. He worries his hands together. “You said that you would. Um.” He swallows. “I picked out a word.”

“You need something right now, or can you wait until I finish this?” asks Bellamy. 

Murphy stands there and looks awkward. “I —“

Bellamy looks over at what he’s done so far. He can feel the sweat sticking to his shirt, his forehead, prickling and uncomfortable. “Go,” he says. “Wait for me at — at home. I’ll take a shower and meet you there.”

“Okay,” says Murphy, and he turns to go.

“Murphy —“ he says, and Murphy turns that half-step around again. “Eat something, would you? Before you get there.”

“Yeah,” says Murphy, looking relieved. “Okay.”

—

He gets an apple from the kitchen, can eat about half of it before his stomach flips into nerves when he thinks about Bellamy, and — he said _eat something_ , not _finish something_ , and he’s about to chuck the rest of the apple into the creek when —

He was given an order. If there is nothing else he is good at, he is good at _following orders_. If there is no other way he can be _good,_ then he can at least take orders. He can take what he is given. He wants to be good.

God. _God._ He wants to be dead. He scratches absentmindedly at his wrists again, at his arms, feeling the sting rise up, watching the skin turn red. He wants — he wants — 

Once, after he had ridden back from Polis with Clarke, she had taken Bellamy aside and said, presumably while she thought he was out of earshot: “I’m worried about him,” and — Does Bellamy only do this because Clarke asked him to? Is he just another responsibility for Bellamy to shoulder?

 _I like whatever_ this _is, too._

Bellamy wouldn’t lie to him like that. And — _this_ probably isn’t whatever Clarke had in mind. 

He chucks the rest of the apple into the creek. It doesn’t feel as good as he thought it would.

—

Murphy is sitting on his bed when Bellamy returns. “Why did you pick me after the dropship landed?” he asks, with no preamble. “You were the Rebel King, you could have had anyone. I was just this weird violent asshole.”

Bellamy can hardly remember it: too much has changed since. “That was two years ago,” he says.

“ _Tell me,_ ” says Murphy, desperate.

Bellamy takes a moment, and then: “You threatened me,” he says, unexpectedly honest. “You were an agent of chaos, and you needed to be controlled.”

Murphy takes a deep breath, lets it out. He holds his hands out, crosses them at the wrists; symbolic, self-sacrificing. “So here I am,” he says. “Control me.”

That’s, ah. That’s very — He feels very warm. “What’s your word?” he asks.

Murphy swallows. “Ontari,” he says.

“Yeah? You sure?”

Murphy doesn’t break eye contact. “If I’m talking about Ontari,” he says, “then I want out. I want to stop.”

“Okay,” says Bellamy, and he opens the top desk drawer.

—

He reaches for Murphy’s wrists, but Murphy twists out of his grip, and — “You still want this?” 

Murphy’s eyes are dark. “Yes,” he says, and stills long enough for Bellamy to fasten the cuff around his wrist, as Bellamy brings both arms behind his back , his grip shifting from gentle to bruising as Murphy gives half a struggle, cuffs the other wrist as well. 

“Get on the floor,” Bellamy orders, pointing. Murphy looks at him uncertainly, and then Bellamy shoves him, so he goes to the floor, to his knees, awkwardly. Bellamy crouches, presses a hand to his throat — Murphy hisses, tries to pull away — but Bellamy is pulling a blindfold over his eyes, and —

He can take it. He can take it. He can endure. 

He shifts from his knees to a cross-legged position. There’s a pause, and then Bellamy slaps him. 

Ow.

“Why —“ he starts, and then Bellamy slaps him again.

Alright. Alright. He gets it. He’s not stupid. 

Bellamy hits him again, and he can feel all the blood rising to his face; something that might turn into a bruise in the morning. So he can’t — There’s nothing he can do to — 

He struggles to his feet: Bellamy lets him, and then once he’s up again, pushes him into the bed — and then. And then he just _can’t._ He curls to his side, and. He asked for this. He fought for this. He doesn’t have to make any decisions now, he can just endure. 

He doesn’t want to be hit again. He really, _really_ doesn’t want it.

He doesn’t have a say in this. 

He hears himself whimper as the weight of Bellamy settles onto the bed. Bellamy brushes some of the hair back from his face, gentle, gentle, and after a brief, hopeful moment, Bellamy hits him again.

He just wants — His chest feels like it’s full of something heavy. Like his lungs are made out of lead. He wants the blindfold off. He wants his hands back. He struggles for a second, useless against the cuffs. 

Bellamy said he would stop. Bellamy said he would stop, if he said The Word. What did he pick? He had thought about this, right? _Shit._

There are hands at his shoulders, pressing him down to the bed, on top of his bound wrists — he gasps and Bellamy hits him and he doesn’t want this and he doesn’t want — 

His mouth is molasses. His face is wet. 

Bellamy is saying his name. He’s curled into himself again. The blindfold is coming off. “Murphy,” he says, and then. “ _Murphy,_ ” and then — “John —“

What even — He doesn’t — “Yeah,” he says, aloud, and Bellamy makes a sound, and he’s — 

He’s sitting up, rubbing his wrists, blinking into the light. “Are you okay?” asks Bellamy, reaching for him, scared, concerned.

No. Yes. No. He’s fine. This isn’t going to — “I have to go,” he says, instead of _literally anything else._ “Sorry,” he adds, like that will help.

Bellamy doesn’t stop him from leaving. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here's your reminder that kink (alone) is not an acceptable or sustainable way of dealing with your problems
> 
> thanks for reading! catch y'all on the flipside!


	6. the flipside

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter brought to you by a lot of panic attacks and also i worked from 9am sunday to 4pm monday, which was. a thing
> 
> sorry it took so long!!!

He goes to the river. He goes to the river and he hurts and he would give _anything_ to not have — to not — He drops to his knees, to his hands, retches into the river. He wants — It hurts. His throat burns. Breathing is — breathing is really really hard. His fingertips are kind of tingly. He starts scratching up his arms again, hard enough that little speckles of blood rise up, and he —

He will wade into the river and he will sink like a stone because he never learned to swim. He will come up, floating, choking, because he _can’t do it,_ he’s never been strong enough or weak enough or whichever it is; he’s immortal and he can’t help it and he _doesn’t want it_ —

There are hands at the edges of his vision. Not his own. He rocks back onto his knees, his palms stained with mud. “What,” he says, but he doesn’t raise his eyes.

“Lukotwar,” says Prosper, and that’s not — 

“What,” he says again.

Prosper stares down at him, his gaze calculating. “You’re hurt,” he says, and then, the obvious: “Who hurt you?”

Who _hasn’t,_ really. But he’s given back what he got, so really, what does it matter? “I killed your brother,” he says.

“Yeah,” says Prosper, and then his shoulder drives into Murphy’s chest, and Murphy coughs around it, and Prosper is lifting him and like. It’s just kind of whatever. 

—

Prosper sets him on a couch somewhere across camp. He lies as still as he can, watching Prosper, as he fusses with something on the wall and then leaves the room. Where is he? North of most things, probably in Prosper’s private quarters, which are technically for any visitors to use, but — yeah, Prosper’s got all his stuff spread out over the table, and his album of Oshokru is on the bed. 

Prosper comes back, talking in low Trigedasleng with — Bryan, who looks kind of uncomfortable and responds with one word answers. Then his eyes track over to Murphy, and he’s holding Murphy’s thermos, and something aches in his chest, and everything still hurts. 

“Hey, Murph,” says Bryan, holding the thermos out to him.

“Hey,” he says, and sits up to take it. He twists off the top. There’s nothing inside. “Why the fuck did you bring this to me,” he says, and his voice sounds dead even to him.

“Sorry,” says Bryan, and Murphy shakes his head, because like, _what is he even apologizing for. “_ You’re not doing that well, Murphy.”

He twists the top back on. “Fuck off,” he says, except after a pause, he keeps talking, and he didn’t even mean to. “Mbege was arrested for theft,” he says, like Miller was, except Miller got off easy. “And then for resisting arrest, and for fighting.” He had been written up for a violent crime, and when he was bunked with Murphy, they both knew there was no chance of them ever getting out, of them ever surviving. 

“Yeah?” says Bryan, gentle. 

“And I just,” that’s not even a sentence, Murphy, who taught you how to talk, “I steal shit all the time. I took an apple from the harvest this morning. I stole Bellamy’s gun. This isn’t even my thermos, it’s Monty’s mom’s, and who knows where _she_ is.”

“You still got Bellamy’s gun?” asks Bryan, a little alarmed.

He bypasses that question, it’s not important. “Mbege is dead and he made me a better person and now he’s gone and I’m worse again.”

“Murphy,” says Bryan slowly. “Who hit you?”

That’s not the question Bryan should be asking. “It doesn’t matter,” he says, and then, considering: “I was asking for it.”

Somewhere behind him, Prosper swears and leaves out the back door. Murphy sets down the thermos and gets up, preparing to follow him wherever. Bryan stops him. “Murphy,” he says, careful. “Why don’t you take a break? Is there anything you want?”

“I want to die,” he tells Bryan, which is true. 

“We are fresh out of death right now,” says Bryan, strained but pleasant. “Is there anything else I can get you?”

“I can _work,”_ snarls Murphy. “I’m not fucking incapacitated, I’m _fine.”_

“Sure,” agrees Bryan. “But you’ve been working pretty hard recently. Maybe you should settle down, take a nap. I’ll keep watch.”

 _Keep watch._ There’s no reason for that, they have a peaceful camp, the Grounders aren’t trying to attack them all the goddamn time, why would he —

Bryan is talking down to him. Bryan is talking down to him because he’s been injured. He probably looks pretty bad then. It’s getting late. He could just — He could take twenty minutes, maybe, but then he has to go back. He has to talk to Bellamy. He has to — He feels kind of like he wants to throw up again. 

That’s not good. He sits down. 

“Can I get you anything?” Bryan is asking again.

“Um,” Murphy says, and then. Bryan needs to feel useful. Needs to feel included, like he’s helping. “I would eat a tangerine.”

Bryan gets him a goddamn tangerine.

 

—

 

Prosper comes to Belomi as the sun is sinking into horizon. “Splita,” he says. “Did Oshokru teach you nothing?”

“What?” says Belomi. 

“Look to the ocean and watch its message,” he says, although it sounds less poetic, less sacred, in English. “It will come: it will come.” And then, because Belomi still doesn’t get it: “I told you to keep him grounded. You made a … pun.”

Belomi blinks at him several times, and then says: “He asked for it.”

“Mofi is self-destructive,” Prosper says, tries to explain. “Are you going to let him destroy himself and use you as his tool, or are you going to ground him here?” And tries again, to remember Oshokru, its lessons: “Does a drop stay still in the ocean? Move with the entirety, and with the tiniest particular.” Wraps an arm around Belomi’s shoulders, listens to him breathe into his hands. _There is a voice that doesn’t use words. Listen._

He remembers: always, the ocean, and what the ocean means to him. And he hopes it means the same things to Belomi.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> splita - exile, outcast
> 
> not much bellamy in this chapter, but maybe more in The Future, as murphy and he talk about what murphy actually needs. all of prosper's Oshokru quotes/proverbs are by Rumi
> 
> this story on hiatus again until NQF finishes up, probably
> 
> thanks for reading! <3


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